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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27794125">Gunpoint</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive'>BlindSwandive</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begging Sam Winchester, Begging/obedience kink, Breathplay, Codependency, Control Issues, Dean Winchester is Obsessed with Sam Winchester, Defiant Sam Winchester, Defiant snotty teen Sam (Sam is 19 during the story), Forced Masturbation, Gun Kink, Implied Sam/others, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Obedience, POV Alternating, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Secret Incest, Voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:00:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,908</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27794125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been trying to keep Sam safe all his life, but Sam likes pushing Dean's buttons, staying out late and partying.  Dean insists it'll all end in tears--and decides to prove it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SPN_Masquerade Fall 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Gunpoint</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/gifts">AnOddSock</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For a delicious Spn_Masquerade prompt requesting Dean masking up to rob and non-con Sam so he can secretly sate his crush, with praise and begging and gun kink. &lt;3  SOCKS YOU ARE FAB.</p><p>Feedback is love. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam nurses his fourth espresso, fingers trembling faintly with the buzz of caffeine on an empty stomach.  He's not supposed to be hungover at work—at nineteen, at all, take your pick—and he's not supposed to have any food or drinks by the electronics, but one bad deed deserves another, Sam supposes.  And anyway, the owner cut out at four as usual and Sam is alone now, expected to hold down the fort in a store he doesn't own for an owner he doesn't respect on two hours of sleep and no lunch and too much coffee and not enough pay, and fuck it.  What the owner doesn't know isn't going to hurt him.</p><p>He's been here for six hours and his head may have stopped pounding but his stomach hasn't untwisted from the bundle of knots it's been in.  He'd tried to blame the Jäger, but he knows better.  Sam only ever feels this sick when Dean is mad at him, and from the way Dean reamed him out when Sam stumbled in at 3 a.m. last night, and from the way he'd glared at Sam over coffee this morning and not said anything at all, Sam knows this one is a doozy.  Yelling is easy.  Silence is dangerous.</p><p>Nineteen is too young to be partying like that, Dean said when Sam got home, even though Dean was partying younger and harder.  You have work tomorrow, Dean said, like he doesn't cruise into the garage late so often the owner threatens to fire him weekly (but owes him too much in lost pool and poker games to want to have to square them out).  Dean doesn't trust those guys Sam hangs out with and Sam's going to regret trusting them, too, mark his words.  Sam's going to regret letting his guard down around them one of these days, regret getting drunk and stoned and stumbling around helpless and stupid, forgetting everything Dean ever tried to teach him to protect him, to keep him safe.</p><p>Sam hears that song every time he stays out too long, every time he comes home with purple bruises on his throat and dark circles under his eyes, comes home smelling like someone else's pot and someone else's aftershave.  Dean circles him like a wolf a breath away from proving to him just how dangerous wolves can be.  Dean bares his teeth and only sheer teen spite keeps Sam from folding and hitting his knees, showing his belly.  But he wants to.  He feels the press and tug like Dean's praise and anger control the gravity.  </p><p>He wants to make Dean happy, craves it like air.  It scares him how much, sometimes.  So he tries to not, just in case.</p><p>In case of what, he tries not to wonder.</p><p>And maybe there's something else twisted up inside, too, something that keeps him pushing Dean's buttons, keeps baiting and pushing and waiting.  Waiting for what, he couldn't say.</p><p>Sam doesn't understand it and doesn't want to.</p><p>All Sam wants for now is to make it through the next twenty minutes so he can get home, make a sandwich, and hopefully eat it before he passes out.  </p><p>He tilts his head back hard to tip the last of his coffee down his throat just as the door chimes, and he sighs silently.  He'd hoped he'd get out of here without any last stragglers.  While whoever it is shuffles in, he shakes the cup to dislodge any stray drops of salvation and steels himself to be polite.</p><p>He doesn't know how they get from the door to him so fast; he doesn't know if being more alert would have given him a chance to get behind the counter to hide or call the police or not; he doesn't even know if he'll make it out of this alive.  But as his chin comes right down unsuspecting onto the too-cold, too-hard barrel of a handgun, all Sam can think is that Dean was right.  About the reflexes, about the hangover and the partying, about everything.  And if he survives this, Dean is going to kill him. </p><p>Sam is face to face with a featureless white mask under a hoodie.  The eye holes are only shadows, and the blank expression on the mask and the heavy silence behind it does something strange to his skin, sets it crawling every which way at once.  He begins to stammer—probably platitudes or pleas, nothing useful—and the gun barrel digs in as the man raises one finger to his mask's lips.  <i>Shh.</i>  The sound dies in Sam's throat on a strangled whine.</p><p>There are two others doing the business of the larceny, stuffing laptops into backpacks and getting to work carrying a large flatscreen out the back together, but they might as well not be there.  Only this man who is hovering in silent warning, filling up Sam's personal space like he owns it, matters.  Sam wonders if he will survive this.  Their father taught them to disarm someone with a gun when they were too young to have to learn something like that, but Sam knows it will not work here, now; he tries to tell himself it's the other man's stance and body he is reading, and not the molasses in his joints, the tremor in his fingers, but <i>Dean was right, Dean was right</i> keeps repeating in his mind.  He closes his eyes.  He prays.</p><p>He tries to pray to God, like in the movies when they swear they'll change their ways if He just saves them just this once.  But it's Dean he imagines sitting in judgment over the prayer, deciding whether or not to grant him that mercy.</p><p>Sam somehow feels the man get closer like the pressure has changed in the air around his body, like pushing one magnet too close to another, and when he opens his eyes, the mask is only a few inches from his face, head tilted as if appraising his value.  Sam swallows.  </p><p>"Not going to make any trouble," Sam manages to breathe out, feeling compelled to appease this man somehow or other, the silence a well that demands to be filled.  <i>I'll be good, honest, Dean,</i> Sam thinks, and has to choke down on the stupid, hysterical laugh that wants to bubble out at the absurdity of that.  As if a burglar cared if Sam was good or bad or anything other than whether he was in the way!  As if Dean really had the power to decide his fate here!</p><p>Sam wishes he did.  Dean might want to strangle him sometimes, but Sam knows down in his bones no one in the world loves him more.  A swell of guilt and bile rise in his throat and he tries to look at the floor, but there's a gun in the way.  He breathes shallow.</p><p>The gun pulls back a fraction and the man gestures with it tersely toward the storeroom.  Sam looks up to search the empty face for any more detailed instructions, but they don't seem to be forthcoming.  He nods, swallows at the lump in his throat, and complies.  He does it shuffling sideways slowly, not ready to turn his back and give up what few clues he might have to this man's moods or moves or intentions.  The man follows, and Sam feels like prey, backing away from him.  He knows the storeroom as well as he knows his own room at home, but it feels like a black maw opening up behind him when he steps backwards into the open doorway.  He wants to rabbit.  He wants to beg.</p><p>"Please," he says, and doesn't know why. </p><p>The gun flicks dangerously, directing him to take the blind step back.  Sam goes.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>- - -</p>
</div>It had been so easy.  Too easy; Dean is pretty sure it means he works with criminals or idiots, he just isn't sure which.  "I know this electronics store on 5th," he'd said oh-so-casually to two likely suspects over a flask of Jack in the breakroom, "owner leaves early and there's just this one skinny kid 'til closing..."  They hadn't even waited to hear the details.  They'd agreed, let Dean lay out the terms, and sealed it with a drink.<p>Dean's terms were simple.  They'd do it his way and go on his say.  The other two would take the merchandise they wanted and leave in the van; Dean would pocket the register and handle the kid before leaving on foot.  No changing the rules if someone doesn't like what he gets.  No one else would be armed or Dean would start breaking faces.  The end.</p><p>It shouldn't have been so easy to set up.  And it shouldn't be going this smoothly.  Dean had half-expected he'd wind up having to take a gun off of one of them or smash in someone's face, but either they lack the imagination or aren't as stupid as he'd thought.  Or maybe his Fuck Off vibes are just reaching new heights and they don't dare to cross him; considering the shit Sam has been putting him through lately, it's definitely possible.  The woman who works the phones at the garage had said something like, "Boy, you look like you been brewing up a month of storms on that face.  You let me know if you plan on hail so I can move my car."  Dean had managed a wink and a smile for her, but if he could have made ice come out of the sky on command, he'd have wiped out every little shit Sam had been partying with as quick as breathing and not thought twice.  And maybe barricaded Sam inside some kind of ice den for a while, while he was at it.  Just until he learned his lesson.</p><p>He just wants Sam to be <i>safe.</i></p><p>And maybe also for him not to come home wearing someone else's hickies and someone else's shitty Axe body spray at three in the goddamn morning, drunk enough he could be anybody's.  Except Dean's.  </p><p>Because Dean's whole world is built on protecting Sam; it is stone number one.  Dean is the one person in Sam's whole world who isn't allowed to get a hard-on when he sees the way Sam has turned long and lean, the one who is apparently supposed to see him get swimming drunk and loose and not want to touch and take.</p><p>But "supposed to" and reality don't always get along so good, to Dean's way of thinking.</p><p>Dean has loved Sam all his life, loved him like breathing.  But once Dad was suddenly not in the picture anymore, and Sam turned into this angsty, sniffling teen getting bigger and more beautiful by the minute even while he occasionally cracked and latched on like Dean was his only buoy in the sea, something went wrong inside.  It has only grown in the couple years since it took root.  Now Dean sees Sam and doesn't just want him happy, healthy, safe and sound under the same roof; he sees Sam and wants him in his teeth, in his blood.</p><p>He would never have done anything about it—never, he convinces himself completely, even though it takes half a fifth of bourbon and an anonymous girl and a fistfight or two—if it weren't the only way he can see to scare Sam straight.  And maybe it'll finally sate this craving, with Sam never having to be the wiser about how fucked up his big brother is, or how far Dean would go for him.</p><p>Dean can have what he needs and be a sin-eater, too, purging and absolving them both.  This is what he tells himself, over and over, until he almost believes it.</p><p>Dean is on a hair trigger, listening to the other two loot while he eyes up his brother baldly behind the mask.  He won't risk anything until their hands are full and they're ready to drive off.  But then there's a whistle from the back door and he feels his skin go hot all over, flush with blood; they're leaving.</p><p>He butts the barrel up under Sam's chin, sees his Adam's apple bob with that nervous swallow he does when he thinks he's holding his shit together and no one can tell how scared he is.  Dean tries to savor it, but then he's slowly menacing Sam backwards toward the little storeroom, no more restraint left.  Sam is pale, sweating, fingers trembling by his sides, and Dean can practically taste the fear on him, but then Sam is promising to be good and Dean's dick goes so hard in his jeans it hurts.</p><p>There is nothing Dean wants more.</p><p>It feels like a dream, but Dean reaches out with his left hand and curls it over Sam's bobbing throat and rabbiting pulse, loves the way the black gloves he's wearing look menacing against Sam's skin, the power he feels from threatening Sam's very breath.  The way Sam's mouth opens on a frightened syllable that dies in his throat and his eyes sparkle wet.  Not crying—Sam's too tough for that—but brushing right up against it.</p><p>Dean squeezes so, so slightly, and presses his grip downward, and Sam reads his intention and obeys, sinking shakily to his knees.  He is obedient, whispers "Please" again, says, "I swear I'll be good" and "Please don't hurt me," and Dean almost chokes. </p><p>He stares at Sam's parted lips, damp from a furtive move of his tongue, and wants inside.  He strokes the end of the barrel of the gun down Sam's cheek, pressing it against the spot where his cheek hollows.</p><p>"What—" Sam stammers, "should—" and his cheeks are blotching red and his eyes are darting anywhere but at Dean.  He's always been smart; Dean's not surprised he's catching on.</p><p>In fact, Dean's betting he can make himself perfectly clear without saying anything out loud at all.  It'll make his chances of getting away with this a lot better.  He lets go of Sam's throat, so he can pop open the button on his fly, ease the zipper down slow.</p><p>Sam's jaw drops and Dean savors the way he can see the reality of the thing sinking in on Sam's face.  His shaking fingers curl into fists at his sides and uncurl, then reach trembling for Dean's fly.</p><p>"I'll—I promise," Sam whispers, reaching into Dean's fly and freeing his dick with some difficulty, startling when it finally bobs free toward his face, jutting red and angry.  "I'll be good," he begs, and Dean's dick leaps, hungry, in his hands, "just—just please don't hurt me."</p><p>Dean closes his eyes for just a moment, savors it.  He takes a slow breath and nods deliberately, traces the gun barrel down Sam's jaw again as a reminder to behave.</p><p>Sam licks his lips nervously and leans forward, looks weak and faint and it makes Dean want to crush him close, hurt him and protect him at once.  Sam watches Dean's mask like he's looking for approval or encouragement or danger, has that look he gave all his teachers when he was little and needed to be told he was doing it right, that he was being good.  His tongue darts out, swipes the underside of the head, and he waits, hovering there, looking up.</p><p>Dean remembers how Sam would cry if a grown-up or Dean was mad at him, desperate to get that forgiveness or that praise or whatever it was he was needing.  Dean gives it to him now, breathes "Good boy" from low in his throat, hoarse and strange, and doesn't miss how Sam's eyelashes flutter, how his face goes red and embarrassed and a little whine escapes.  He doesn't miss how Sam's tongue feels hungrier the next time it swipes up the underside of his dick, either, or how when Dean gives an encouraging little groan, Sam sinks on him like Dean's dick is a lifeline, gripping at the base and curling his fingers over one of Dean's front pockets.</p><p>Part of Dean surges jealous; Sam blows him like he knows what he's doing, and Dean again imagines killing every idiot Sam has ever spent an hour alone with.  But Sam also blows Dean like he believes his life depends on it, like he'll cry if he can't make Dean happy with him, and Dean feels drunk on the power of it, hungry for Sam's obedience.  </p><p>He slides his left hand into Sam's shaggy hair to grip, pushes himself further inside, pushes until Sam chokes and coughs and tears spill.  He stays until Sam is scared enough to struggle even under the threat of the gun, then lets him up long enough for Sam to cough and snot and start begging again.</p><p>"Sorry," Sam says, pleading with his hands on Dean's body like it's his fault Dean pushed too far.  "I'm sorry, I'll—I can do it, I promise, I'll be good," he says, and Dean groans, steps further into Sam's space, one foot between his knees, pulls him in by the hair until his face is in Dean's groin.  Sam pants and licks and suckles anything he can reach like he needs it, and Dean can't even manage to care it's because he thinks his life is on the line, just savors the desperation and the way Sam needs.  Suddenly wants nothing else in the world so much as Sam saying please to him again and again, promising he'll be good for Dean.</p><p>When Dean gives him the slack, Sam doesn't wait to be guided, just swallows Dean down like he wants it, like he loves it, and Dean aches but thrills to it too.  He pushes too hard, just to give Sam more than he  can take and then watch him try harder.  Dean tests him, holding him down and breathless until he squirms, because when Dean lets him up Sam acts like it's a gift, moaning, tongue working furiously, head bobbing frantic and eager.</p><p>Dean feels like a god.</p><p>"Doing so good," he says in his throat like a purr, and Sam flushes all the way down his neck, squirms and grips Dean's pocket so hard his knuckles go white.  He moans and hums, delves his fingers further into Dean's fly to get to his balls, to squeeze and roll and stroke, and Dean nods, growls his encouragement.  </p><p>Sam moans faintly, and Dean can't help it, has to know, and nudges the toe of his boot up between Sam's legs.  Sam gasps around a mouth full of him, thighs clamping around his boot, and Dean can't tell for sure through the leather but he thinks Sam is hard, that Sam is getting off on this too, and Dean comes down his throat.</p><p>When he can focus his eyes again, Dean steps back, letting his twitching dick slide out of Sam's mouth.  Sam looks mortified, clasps his hands over his lap, and Dean is sure now that he's tenting his chinos, but Sam shyly laps a drip of cum from the head of Dean's dick.  Dean stares at his mouth, now full and flushed, and tries to memorize it to keep it forever, but even though this was meant to lance the boil, Dean feels the jealousy lurching awake again as he wonders if he's seen that mouth before, if he'll see it again.</p><p>He steps back suddenly, tightening his grip on the gun and stuffing himself back in his pants.</p><p>It can't end here.  He can't stop yet, can't stand the thought of leaving, of breaking this moment.</p><p>"Your turn," he breathes, and Sam's eyes snap up, wide with confusion.  Dean knows it's dangerous to say any more than he has to, but doesn't know how to mime it and not feel like an idiot, settles on: "Show me."  When Sam's eyes dart, uncertain, he says, "I want to see you come," breathes it out on a hungry sigh.</p><p>Sam shuts his eyes tight, looks terrified but needy, mouth open wordless and panting.</p><p>"Now," Dean hisses, and Sam jolts, opening his own fly with shaking hands.  Dean was right; he's hard, the head of his dick red and weeping where it's been rubbing inside his pants.  He only looks up at Dean in furtive glances now, maybe too embarrassed to linger but unable to keep from looking for feedback.  Dean gives it in slow nods and hungry hisses, and Sam spits in his hand and goes to work.</p><p>Dean watches him like he's eating a last meal, tries to learn every twist of Sam's hand, every peculiar rhythm, how much he leaks and how much spit he adds.  If Dean is going to hell, it might as well be worth it.  This will feed Dean's fantasies for the rest of his life, if it has to.</p><p>He doesn't want it to end, but if it has to, it should end with Sam on his knees, begging Dean's approval and fearing Dean's anger and coming for Dean's encouragement.</p><p>When Dean breathes, "That's right," or "So pretty," or "Good boy," Sam's dick jerks in his hand and he keens, covering his mouth with his hand to stifle the noise.</p><p>Sam pants harder, curls a little over himself, sweat dripping down his forehead now, and Dean sees how close he is, needs to be part of it.  He crouches, drinks in his fill, and breathes, "Now be a good boy and come for me," and it's not immediate but he knows it's the tipping point when Sam stifles a wail in his hand.  A few more wild jerks of his wrist and Sam is coming, streaks the flat industrial carpet and Dean's boots with his cum, and even though it has him hissing, might be too much, he keeps pulling, nurses out a few stray jets, stops only when he's wincing at the contact of his own fingers.</p><p>Dean is gone before Sam opens his eyes.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>- - -</p>
</div>Sam is in a haze when he gets home.<p>He phoned the police—he had to, there was a robbery—but he can't give them much, a number of men and vague heights and an itemized list of what was missing.</p><p>He doesn't mention the rest.</p><p>It still takes two hours, and when he gets home he's famished and light-headed, but strangely quiet inside.  </p><p>He made it home safe.  He made it back home to Dean without dying; that's enough.</p><p>Dean is concerned, has this look like he's hovering, like he knows something is up, but he doesn't pry.  Sam is glad; he wouldn't know what to say.  His mind is empty.</p><p>Sometimes feeding Sam calms Dean down when he's worrying—sometimes it calms Sam down, too—and there's a pot of chili on the stove, so Sam sits on the couch still in his work clothes and asks Dean to get him a bowl.  </p><p>"Say please," Dean says with a weird, tight smile.  Sam does, docile, and Dean goes slack-jawed.</p><p>Dean brings him too much food, and watches him eat the entire bowl.  And when Sam starts to nod off on the couch beside him, not ready to make the move to sleep in his room alone, Dean covers him with a blanket, and watches him while he drifts.</p><p>He's pretty sure Dean murmurs, "Good boy, Sam," but in the twilight haze of exhaustion he can't be sure.  He sleeps soundly, just the same.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Full text of prompt because it was awesome: Sam/Dean, AU, forced at gunpoint, begging/praise kink - <br/>AU where Sam works a crappy customer service job. One day his workplace is robbed at gunpoint by people in masks. One of the masked people takes a special interest in him, forces him into a back room and gets him on his knees or bent over a desk to have some fun.</p><p>That person, face covered and refusing to speak, turns out to be his big brother Dean who sees an opportunity to act on his attraction to Sam with no-one knowing, not even Sam. When Sam starts to beg not to be hurt, it just gets Dean going even more, and Sam blushes very hard when he's told he's being good.</p><p>Sam could secretly enjoy it too, even if it is forced at gunpoint, but would prefer the secret to continue until the end of the story. But if the reveal were to come after the fact, if Sam sees Dean with a bruise where he managed to hit back, or recognises his dick while getting out of the shower… that would be great too.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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